


Saving John Watson

by YankingAwry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Dream-world Action, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Mycroft/Hudders/Molly/Jim only make imaginary cameos, Nightmares, Plus a bit of, Rated M for language, Romance, Sherlock's Subconscious, and a decent amount of, and pain and suffering and all that is brokenly beautiful in this world?, i'll stop now, idk why I always forget the Angst tag, is it because Johnlock naturally implies angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YankingAwry/pseuds/YankingAwry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>And he holds John’s head in his hands.</p>
  <p>The pallor of his skin is worse. John’s eyes are open and unseeing. His mouth is pinched, his face lax.</p>
  <p>“Forgive me,” Sherlock whispers, pressing his clammy forehead to John’s, trapping sweaty curls. “I didn’t want to do it- not like this-” His thumbs rotate against John’s temples, feeling the coarseness of his blond-grey hair-</p>
  <p>Sherlock leans further, and kisses John.</p>
  <p>He cannot taste anything beyond the blood.</p>
</blockquote><p>In which John dies seven times, and Sherlock Holmes saves him the eighth time- wakes up- and is saved in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saving John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Extreme hyphenation and italicising. It's an affliction. There is no known cure. Apologies in advance.

Sherlock Holmes does not remember how he got here.

Ergo: a dream.

Such foregone conclusions work well enough upon awakening, but not _then_. Not, in the fear and rust of the _happening_ -

Bother. Mycroft Holmes is here, dressed ostentatiously; a scepter in his hand, a sneer licked across his face. The plush, purple robes are bordered with gold, and trail the floor, scratching against the polished wood-?

Ah, they are standing in 221B, Baker Street- but it’s been stripped bare of its furniture and carpet; its warmth and familiarity. Only Mrs. Hudson’s tartan curtains remain, fluttering against an open window (Sherlock can hear her, tottering downstairs about the kitchen, fussing over burnt pastries). There is no light outside to be discerned, and yet, the flat is illuminated. The effect works well for Mycroft, highlighting the folds and lines of face, the curve of his nose, lending him an _imperial_ air- surely, the setting, this lighting- it’s intentional; _his_ intention-

"Think, Sherlock, _think_. John is dying."

"What? I don't- where is he?"

Sherlock hates this part, the part where Mycroft first informs him. It is needless, a waste; an unnecessary plot point in this relentlessly recurring dream- but it happens, all the same- happens, even though Sherlock knows, by the weight of his heart, by the smell of foreboding in the air, by an unidentified static in his ear- happens, even though he _knows_ , before Mycroft even opens his prim mouth, that _John Watson is in danger_ -

As he thinks it, John appears, senseless and spread-eagled on the floor. Mycroft bends near the body and deftly rolls up his sleeve, conjuring a gleaming syringe. He buries it in his own vein, drawing out a green, viscous substance-

"Step _away_ from him, Mycroft, don't touch him with that-"

"At ease, brother mine-"

"Did you do this? Was this you?"

"Hardly, Sherlock. I have it on good authority that bitterness," Mycroft twirls the brimming syringe, "is a paralytic. But observe John's wrists."

Sherlock kneels on the opposite side of John's body, holding up two fingers to his nose. Barely any breathing. He presses the fingers to side of John’s neck, probing. Weak pulse. How to save him? He then unbuttons John's cuffs (how, how does Mycroft always _know_ ), and there, he sees-

Sherlock. His name. In cramped, bloodied writing, carved over and over around and into John's wrists, like a perverse bracelet-

"If he was paralysed, why would he have to be bound?" Mycroft takes John's hand, examining it, and remarks, "Oh, he put up a struggle. But Love is a tenacious material, makes for an excellent bind, wouldn’t you say?"

"But what was he bound to? What was the danger-"

"The answer is right in front of you, little brother. I've already told you." Mycroft peers at him with raised eyebrows, willing him to see-

And of course he sees it then, it's _everywhere_ -

Blood, darkened blood, crusts John's nostrils and his ears, and lines his lips in streaks. The skin of his arms, his neck, patterned in a beautiful, broken web of burst capillaries. Hemorrhaging, both internal and- Sherlock assumed John's cardigan was naturally maroon, but no, its _beige_ ; only every fiber has been soaked with-

"Love, in two forms. Obvious, _obvious_ , how did I not see..."

"How, indeed."

"He was bound by it- and then he was drowned in it-" Sherlock breaks off, feeling nauseous. But _no_ : sentiment is messy, it is irrelevant. Sentiment will not save John Watson.

“If we find the perpetrator, the person capable of this, and we learn their method- we can find the solution, and bring John back-"

But there is only silence from Mycroft. The man has straightened himself, and is looking very carefully at him.

Something tremendous shatters inside Sherlock.

"No," he says hoarsely, willing it to be untrue.

"I'm afraid so, Sherlock.” Mycroft bows his head. “It was you."

"I would never _hurt_ John like _this_ -"

"Not knowingly, perhaps- but here we are, arguing semantics, while John's life is escaping, pulse,” his mouth twists, “by thready pulse-"

Sherlock lets out a hard exhale, pushing the monstrous possibility to the back of his mind- that he could do _this_ , in _any_ reality, to John-

"There is only one way, Sherlock. You must Kiss him."

"And what good will that do?" Sherlock snaps, his jaw working viciously with unsaid acid, acid he longs to throw at Mycroft, who's just standing there, so unperturbed, so uncaring. Unwrapping an éclair with long fingers, neat as can be, as if he has all the time in the world.

Seething as Sherlock is, he places a gentle ear to John's chest.

The beats are slowing, drying up like the saliva in his mouth-

 _No_.

Sherlock is a child again, hands cupped under a running tap for the first time, realising in panic that there are things, elemental forces beyond him, that his hands cannot hold; there are things that will slip right through the most tight-knit of fingers, and never return-

"Give him something to come back for, Sherlock. Kiss him."

"It's not- it's not scientific, it can't work- I can't simply revive John on an emotional plane, I can't do it-"

"It's not called a Kiss for mere poetry, Sherlock. He has been drowned. Resuscitate him."

Of course, _of_ _course_ \- damn Mycroft, but _bless_ him; thank the universe for him, but _never_ admit he did-

Sherlock fumbles, unbuttoning John's limp form. Links his hands together, and places them, palm first, on John's bare chest, among glinting blond hairs-

 _Pump_ -two-three-four-

First, a rhythm; all he needs is a stable rhythm-

And suddenly, the light is white, and harsh; as Sherlock's eyes adjust to the brightness, he sees Molly Hooper. She has donned her laboratory coat, hair done up in a French plait (a few wisps escape: deliberate), _that_ lipstick (likewise, deliberate); snapping on latex gloves. A ready smile on her face. Smooth, white, sterile environment. But if they’re at the _morgue_ , that means-

John, _where’s_ _John_ -

He’s right in front of Sherlock, on the operating table. No, an operating _roundtable_ -

A primal instinct pricks at him, and Sherlock grips the edge of the wood, ready to _spin_ John's body, give it a good, long _whirl_ -

"No Sherlock, you can't do that." Molly places a hand on his shoulder. "You've lead him in enough circles."

John is naked, with some kind of intent- his toned legs, widened to form a sixty-degree angle ( _fifty_ - _seven_ , for precision’s sake), his arms symmetrically spread, his body outstretched entirely to touch the very edges of the roundtable, so that the muscles of his pelvis are pulled tight and taut, the light abdominal skin at odds to the rest of his fading tan, leading downwards to-

"Focus now, Sherlock. You can get into that later, can't you?" Molly's voice is kind, but firm.

"Yes, of course-" Sherlock's head snaps up, flustered, and his eyes meet Mycroft’s, who is behind glass, seemingly in the viewing room. He is on the phone, and silently holds up a finger at Sherlock, turning away-

"You always do that,” Molly sighs. “You always fixate on him, even though… _John_ , think about John-"

"I'm- I'm sorry, I don't- I'm not normally this helpless, I-" Sherlock feels a new wave of panic, an immense crest that is moments away from collapsing against his throat.

 _John_.

"It's alright, but you really need to focus. Now, John's vitals-" Molly gestures to a monitor which wasn't there a second ago, that has a wide, transparent screen. Rivulets of blood drip down from the inside, colouring the surface a horrible, vivid red, over and over. Attached to John's left wrist is an IV drip, which is pulsating a thunderous black; tiny flashes of electricity continuously spark against the plastic covering.

"It doesn’t look good at all," she frowns. "Your brother was right, I don't see how we can bring him back, except through Kissing-"

Sherlock grips his head in his hands. To perform such an action, successfully, when so many have failed-

When so many things can go wrong-

He looks up again, and feels a sudden, sharp wall of pain as Molly slaps him.

"You're _thinking_ too much. Does John have the _time_ , Sherlock?" She leans forward, voice quiet and furious. "Do _you_ have the time?"

"No," Sherlock breathes. “You’re right.”

“Not nearly as often as I’d like to be,” she smiles painfully. And then she is gone. In her stead, there is Mycroft, flipping the phone shut and pushing it deep into his pocket. He takes Sherlock’s hand ( _what_ _is_ _he_ _doing_ ), unfurls Sherlock’s fist ( _no_ ), and there- lying cold upon his palm, and gleaming green- the syringe.

“I couldn’t say it before, but now we are truly alone. There is another option, Sherlock. It will not only save John, it will save both of you.

“Administer it to him. Give him an overdose, and then give yourself one as well. I-” Mycroft’s voice falters. “It will save the two of you a lot of pain. Contrary to what you may choose to believe-” Mycroft inhales, chin pushed up, steeling himself, “-I do not wish to see you in that kind of agony. Ever, if I can help it.”

Sherlock is quiet, considering his brother’s torn face. Mycroft opens his mouth, to say something more-

But Sherlock raises a hand.

 _Revelation_.

He is in control, he is _soaring_ -

And he is going to save John Watson.

“Mycroft,” he says steadily, “if you’re going to help me- _do_ so. Not a single word apart from what I ask for.”

And, for the first time since he’s begun to ceaselessly dream this wretched dream every night, he _anticipates_ what happens next- and prepares himself for it-

Sherlock shifts the syringe in his hand. The roundtable moves with a grating screech as he pushes it out of the way ( _Stay with me, John_ ), so that there is nothing, between him and Mycroft-

Nothing between them, as Mycroft’s face melts, and morphs, into Jim Moriarty’s-

“Well hello, Sherlock. This is a turn-up, isn’t it?”

Moriarty grins, lips stretching thinly over his teeth, glistening with saliva. He shrugs off the heavy robes, revealing a sleek, grey suit beneath. Reptilian-like, his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

Wordlessly, Sherlock places one hand on Moriarty’s nape, and using the other, plunges the syringe into his neck, pushing the liquid down-

Moriarty stiffens.

_Yes._

Sherlock relaxes, pulling the needle out.

It _worked._

A beat of silence, and then Moriarty begins to laugh.

“Oh, Sherlock, dear Sherlock…” He is holding his belly, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks; dark eyes are blown darker, to mere pupils, fixed on Sherlock’s blank face.

“Darling, my body- the _entirety_ of it- circulates on that slime. You could say I’ve spent my life building a resistance to bitterness-” He holds out his arms, as if to embrace, “I am, quite literally, _made_ of it.”

He sweeps imaginary dust off his suit, still looking up at Sherlock. “I must say, I’m a bit let down. You always do this. Believe that you’re one step ahead: but make the same mistake, over and over…it’s _ever_ so laughable.”

“…no.”

“Sorry?”

Sherlock smiles, and holds up the syringe so that he can see.

A few milliliters of translucent fluid remain inside- it refracts the light like a prism, and suddenly, the entire room is _flooded_ with colours-

Fear creeps upon Moriarty’s face, and he groans, clutching at his neck.

“How…”

He collapses onto the floor, shivering, writhing.

Sherlock steps around the body, looming over Moriarty. He looks down.

“Enjoy it while you can, Jim. There’s no one to _fix_ it for you, I extracted this from my own veins. I didn’t know I could, but…” Sherlock trails off. _John_. “…balance of probability. Even _I_ must, on occasion, surprise myself. I regret you will never feel it in any other form.” He kneels, and puts his mouth next to Moriarty’s ear. “You will only ever feel it like this, in its basest incarnation- a parasitic engulfment. It would _almost_ be laughable- if it weren’t so pitiful.”

The surroundings blur, and suddenly, he is back at Baker Street-

John’s body has been laid upon the kitchen table, still naked, amongst the beakers and test tubes. Sherlock sweeps it away hurriedly, all onto the floor- there is the tinkling of breaking glass, and a hiss of spilt chemicals- a Bunsen burner clatters to the ground, noisily-

And he holds John’s head in his hands.

The pallor of his skin is worse. John’s eyes are open and unseeing. His mouth is pinched, his face lax.

“Forgive me,” Sherlock whispers, pressing his clammy forehead to John’s, trapping sweaty curls. “I didn’t want to do it- not like _this_ -” His thumbs rotate against John’s temples, feeling the coarseness of his blond-grey hair-

Sherlock leans further, and kisses John.

He cannot taste anything beyond the blood.

_(you construct intricate rituals)_

Prying John’s lips open with his, he exhales into John’s mouth, harder. Places his linked hands on John’s chest, and begins to pump. Resurfaces for a breath, and goes back down-

_(which allow you to touch)_

It devolves into a steady clockwork of precise movements- exhale, pump, exhale, pump, inhale to the side, and repeat.

His face is wet- _why is it wet_ \- oh, tears. Sherlock is crying for John, for the man who refuses to splutter and _sit_ _up_ _already_ , even though Sherlock is breathing into him with all the air he has, and _then_ some. Kissing him his _damndest-_ it’s just so cruel-

_(the skin of other men)_

-of _John,_ to do this, to not relent- to _stay_ _dying_ -

Dying,

Dying.

The final proof. He always suspected it (evidence of absence: can’t prove a negative), but now he _knows_. There is no-

“ _God_ ,” John gasps into Sherlock’s mouth, arching upwards.

And Sherlock wakes up.

 

*

 

John Watson has an intimate knowledge of nightmares.

On good nights, he doesn’t dream.

On the bad nights, he is carried through the heat and gunfire of Afghanistan in total stupor, on the shoulders of a young soldier who dies unknown; who is struggling to reach safe haven for the both of them. The near-constant shelling sends great spurts of dust into the air, and into their eyes. On the bad nights, John’s one hand is limp, while the other is invariably on his bullet wound, trying to stop the blood gurgling out.

On the truly terrible nights, he is the young soldier.

The first time he is woken by Sherlock’s torn, anguished yell, he leaps out of bed, bounds downstairs, switching on all the lights- and bursts through the doorframe, heart thudding madly-

The following morning, they do not speak of how John found Sherlock sitting upright on his bed, hands clutching his curls, face downturned, and tears dripping off the end of his nose.

The second time he is woken like this, John rushes downstairs, but does not switch on any lights.

The third time he is woken like this, John does a breathing exercise- inhales, exhales, slowly closes his eyes- until he is calm enough to drift back to sleep.

In John’s book, experiencing nightmares is one problem wherein the first step to a solution is, quite firmly, _not_ recognising it.

By the seventh time, he wonders if this may not be so applicable to Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock, unlike John, may _benefit_ by talking about it. It has been a week of consecutive nightmares, nightmares that have regularly served as an alarm in every sense of the word. So he makes up his mind to broach the subject, and spends most of his time at the clinic deciding _how_.

When John goes to sleep that night, he wakes up next on the eighth morning.

Bright sunlight streams, filtered and muted through the curtains.

It takes a full minute for him to realise. When he does, he sinks deeper into his pillow, and is surprised by a very profound sense of peace.

 

*

 

That night, John rubs the glass of his watch-face clean (the metal is getting noticeably scuffed, ought to buy a new one), and dabs himself with a tiny amount of cologne. He inspects himself in the mirror, and grins. It has become an accepted annoyance of John’s life- like the third button on the TV remote that never works, or the rattling doorknob to the loo that cannot be tightened: flat-sharing with Sherlock Holmes is not conducive to healthy, long-term relationships.

Tonight is his first second-date in _ages_.

He makes his way to the living room to heat some of last night’s curry for Sherlock, in the vain ( _vain_ ) hope that he’ll return to see it eaten. He opens the door ( _Sherlock, I’m going out tonight_ \- and then, endure the stream of deductions [with whom, which restaurant, calculated probability of getting laid]), steps in, and quite literally, does a double take.

“…Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Is that…is that my cardigan?”

“This?” Sherlock is sitting weirdly- on his haunches, and upon his armchair- fingers steepled, and staring into the kitchen. He looks down, appearing to have realised that over the (ridiculously designer) black shirt he’s wearing (and fetchingly stretching) is John’s (beige, humbly knit, peasant) cardigan. “Oh. Yes.”

“I see.” John tilts his head, not really seeing at all. “I think I put that in tonight’s laundry load.”

“Correct.”

“Okay. It’s not…clean.”

“Yes, I can tell.”

“Right, okay.”

John takes a deep breath, turns towards the door, and then turns back.

“You hate my clothes.”

“Not at all, John. I merely harbor an intense _dislike_ to a vast majority of them.”

“Can I ask why you’re wearing it?”

“You can.”

John purses his lips. So he’s in _that_ kind of a mood.

“ _Alright_. Why are you wearing my cardigan?”

Sherlock turns to John, considering, blinking rapidly. With a swift, fluid motion, he lands feet-first and gracefully on the carpet, and strides towards him. John backs up into the doorjamb ( _ouch_ ), alarmed. His eyes widen as Sherlock stops right in front of him ( _what’s happening_ ), mere inches away from being pressed right against him ( _why_ ), and cradles John’s jaw with his right hand ( _oh my god_ ). 

He doesn’t realise his mouth is open until Sherlock kisses it.

Alright.

Okay, this is nice.

Wait.

_What?_

 John watches Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter, a small ridge formed in the skin between his eyebrows, formed from concentration (concentrating on him, on _John_ ). He feels Sherlock’s left hand fist hard into his hip ( _lovely_ ), holding onto John’s shirt. Their noses are mashed and both their eyes are open- John sees the grey irises bob and sway, up and down, as Sherlock moves from sucking on John’s lower lip ( _fuck_ ), to pulling gently on his upper-

 _Stop_.

John puts both his hands on Sherlock’s chest, and pushes him away firmly, breathing heavily.

Sherlock steps back, one hand tugging at the hem of the cardigan. He blinks at John, face blank.

The whole situation is highly disconcerting.

“Why did you do that?” John asks, quietly.

Sherlock opens his mouth, and closes it.

“Sherlock? I need you to answer that, please.”

“I can’t- it’s _replete_ with irony, John, all of this. It appears,” a small pause, “that I’m saving myself.”

“Right.” A beat. “I have _no_ idea what that means.”

Sherlock bites his lip from the inside, creating a little dent in the corner of his mouth. It’s oddly endearing.

“John-” he says, with a bowed head ( _say_ something _, anything_ ), “-have a pleasant date.” And with that, Sherlock turns- sits down at the table- snaps open his (own) laptop- and begins to type.

Wow. The _bastard_.

Is that how desperate he’s become, to keep John here? To ruin his dates?

Resorting to measures like _that_ , and cryptic _bullshit_ -

“Yeah, thanks. I will.”

With a pointed glare that goes completely amiss, John picks up a coat (damn the reheating, let him _starve_ ), pockets the keys, and bangs the front door on his way out.

 

*

 

“Rebecca?”

“Yes, John?” She answers, teasingly.

Couples are dining all around them, luxuriating in a very specific _hush_ \- the type that accompanies such romantic places- brushing fingers, flashing small, secret smiles-

John tries to smile. He can’t.

She’s quite beautiful, Rebecca. More so in candlelight. Her honey-coloured skin looks smooth, and inviting. Her eyelashes are long, and dark- she has a small dimple that becomes most pronounced when she is giving that characteristic, full-throated burst of laughter- which is often, with him.

A silver chain follows the shape of her collarbones. It glints, when she turns her head, towards the light-

It inspires a telling melancholy in John that he can appreciate her beauty, her loveliness- while remaining _completely_ removed from it-

While craving another, _specific_ type of beauty- more angular- of fuller lips and familiar, alabaster skin-

“I don’t think I can do this.”

Confusion, then hurt, flits across her face.

“What do you mean?”

“We can’t continue this. Circumstances have- arisen, and I- it’s not _fair_ , to you. Me. Us. To keep this up, when I’m not- when I don’t-” The words rise and die in his dry mouth.

Rebecca takes a sip of wine. She says nothing.

“I’m so sorry.”

She looks up, face tightly held in a look he cannot quite place.

“John- I thought-” A sigh. “I thought we were doing well.”

Fidgeting. Regret. Silence.

“So did I.”

 

*

 

John enters the living room and hangs up his coat, left fist clenching and unclenching. Sherlock is back on his armchair, lounging (an art form, with _his_ limbs) normally this time, in a loosely tied (navy blue, silk, _posh_ ) dressing gown. Fingers are steepled once more, and he is gazing into the kitchen, John’s cardigan draped neatly over the armrest.

John hesitates- firms his mind- and walks forward, settling into his own armchair. Directly in Sherlock’s line of sight.

The wanker doesn’t even so much as _blink_.

“Sherlock. _Sherlock_. Look at me.”

 _Then_ , he gives a small start of surprise. Leans forward- and then back. Analytical eyes flick across John’s body, observing, assessing. They meet John’s eyes, and blink, looking away.  

Sherlock clears his throat.

“I see,” he says, in a low voice.

“You do? Good. Yeah, good. That makes one of us,” replies John.

Sherlock- _winces_ \- still refusing to make eye-contact.

“I have to ask,” John begins, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. He crosses one leg over the other, and then uncrosses it. Taps out a random rhythm on his thigh.

For _fuck’s_ sake _-_

“Do you- did you do that, intentionally, to mess with my head? Because you didn’t want me- enjoying my date? Is that- was it an experiment?”

Sherlock frowns, fiddling with a loose thread on the cardigan.

“Certainly,” he answers, “if that explanation helps you rationalise it. By all means-” a hard exhale, “-treat it as nothing more.”

There is something vital, something tremendously _important_ that John is missing- that he does not see, obscured as it is, by a fog of all things _unsaid_ -

A jolt-

_Oh._

“Is this about- about your nightmares?”

Sherlock’s eyes snap upwards to his, impossibly fast, shocked-

One, precise nod.

“Okay,” John breathes, “okay. We’re getting somewhere. So…your nightmares. They had you- confused? About- what you feel? For me?”

No answer.

“Sherlock,” John leans forward, placing a tentative hand next to Sherlock’s. The fiddling stops.

“Erm.” He coughs. “I’m not very good at this, I- Sherlock, do you- doyou _may_ belikeme-” He finishes, flushing heavily. Like a bloody _teenager_ , all over again-

Sherlock turns his face to John at last, looking thoroughly bewildered.

Oh god, John’s messed up- messed up _big_ _time_ -

“John,” Sherlock says confusedly, child-like, “I understand that everything of significance bypasses you almost entirely, but how can _you_ , of all, fail to _see_ that-” He rises from his chair, working up an agitation- John swallows, as he begins to pace-

“I do not _like_ you. It is a shortcoming of the English language that even _love_ can seem inadequate, that there is no word potent enough, _sufficient_ enough, to describe…I dreamt of you, John. _Dreamt_ of you- that you were _dying_ -“ Sherlock’s voice is thickening- John is numb- “-do you understand? You were dying, and _I failed to save you_. I failed, seven times- each time, because I did not understand- could not assimilate the evidence, _my_ _evidence_ -”  Sherlock drops suddenly, kneeling in front of John, face upturned, and earnest-

“Do you know how much I _loathe_ Psychology?”

John blinks, as an inappropriate giggle threatens to escape his lips-

“Erm…it’s never really come up, no.”

“A great deal, John,” Sherlock says solemnly. “For such a charlatan subject to be clubbed with the _real_ disciplines, with Biology, and Chemistry- I have always felt it is nothing short of a travesty. Psychology is too _imprecise_ \- there are too many fallible variables- it is, in my opinion, singularly-” He pauses, searching for _le mot juste_ , “-messy. And yet.”  

His face softens, and he grips John’s hand.

“And yet. Possessing, as I do, a vast intellect, it is not inaccurate to assume that a corresponding subconscious must be cluttered, and complex, in the same proportion. I examined my subconscious- and it is mad, John- stark, raving _mad_ \- and discovered, that _I had seen before I saw_. That certain actions have a latent, symbolic _import_.

“I find, in recent times, that I am forced to _empathise_ \- that I am capable of it, and that it feels _right_ \- that I derive small joys from even smaller instances, instances intimately connected to _you_ \- a punchline you may have bungled, a brand of shaving cream you are favourably disposed towards. The world, which I knew to be rigidly constructed, has been reconfigured by the mere _thought_ of you- and when I search myself, John, I find an indescribable certainty. A beautiful, brilliant, wealth of _meaning_ \- in places I’d never dreamed of…”

He trails off, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Well. That was slightly- _convoluted_ \- I apologise. But to answer, as best I can- yes. I like you, I love you. I lust for you, and am capable of shamelessly doting on you. I am even, in many respects… _inspired_ , by you.”

John blinks once more, ve-e-ry slowly.

This is _real_.

“John?” Sherlock prompts.

John opens his mouth-

 _Nope_.

-and closes it.

“John, I have proverbially spilled my heart. Convention dictates that you reciprocate.”

He pouts, and John bursts into laughter.

“Oh my god, Sherlock,” he fights to breathe, “I am...yeah, I'm crazy about you. That should’ve been pretty obvious as well, I think. You don’t- no one even _compares_ , Sherlock. I don’t have a measure- a standard, to- _god_. I love you.”

“ _Excellent_.” Sherlock beams- all teeth and glee- squeezing John’s hand again.

John leans in-

And Sherlock jumps up with a swish of his dressing gown, walking towards the kitchen.

“Oi,” says John, craning his neck and feeling faintly miffed, “What are you doing?”

“Experimenting, John!” Sherlock replies, and his enthusiasm is infectious, if annoying- “I had been experiencing an emotional _constipation_ , if you will- it frustrated all of today’s scientific efforts- but you have _cured_ me-”

“Have I?” John saunters inside, a distinct plan taking shape- “And what do you think of a more… _hands-on_ , sort of experiment?”

Sherlock shrugs, snapping on safety goggles, and firing up a Bunsen burner.

“The experiment I have in mind is fairly hands-on, John. I don’t-” Realisation. “ _Oh_.”

John leans forward on the counter top, and smiles. A dark blush spreads across Sherlock’s cheekbones-

Christ, he’s _beautiful_.

“Do you know you do that out loud?”

“What?” John startles. “I didn’t- did I? What did I-” and breaks off at Sherlock’s smirk.

“Oh, you got me. You smarmy, mind-reading _twat_ -”

“Face-reading, rather. You have a very open face.”

“Would you like to kiss it?”

A stunned silence. Sherlock takes off his goggles, and places them next to the forgotten burner.

“I- you would- that is, I can?”

John’s smile widens, disbelieving, as Sherlock moves along the edge of the table, over to his side. “’Course. ‘ _Course_ you can, anytime you want. I mean, I’m _saying_ ‘anytime’, but _now_ would be pretty fucking gr-”

And John Watson, to his delirious delight, is not allowed to finish the sentence.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The quote I interspersed into the Sherlock-reviving-John scene is Barbara Kruger's ("You construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men"), I've seen it several times on Tumblr. Compact, and powerful.


End file.
